wishful thinking
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a night without noisebut the song of dancing flames from the fireplacea cold room fills with warm airas someone sits on the empty couchwatching the stars from the windowas the night slips awayand the embers turn to ash
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the sky is full of starsyet the spectacular coloursof the northern lightsare still to come—like the unfinished poemwritten in the notebookas the poet has left the room
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wednesday’s gray dawnthe birds stay on the ground—silently it’s no longer tea for twoand some bird dropping into my cupthe swear words fall from my mouthand they scatter—leaving me behind with nothing but the rain falling
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the butterfly inside mewill keep flutteringuntil the sun sets in the east